


A Delicious Predicament (part 1)

by Mari Black (LochNessRaven)



Series: Torn Asunder [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Arousal, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gen, Mild Blood, Minor Violence, Olfactophilia, Other, Sex, Sexuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:46:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23629453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LochNessRaven/pseuds/Mari%20Black
Summary: After Lavellan and her companions barely survive their first encounter with a high dragon, the recently-appointed Inquisitor finds her thoughts turning in directions she had not previously considered.
Relationships: Iron Bull/Female Lavellan
Series: Torn Asunder [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1700971
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	A Delicious Predicament (part 1)

**Author's Note:**

> _Torn Asunder_ is an ongoing erotic fiction which follows the plot of Dragon Age: Inquisition. Behind the scenes of major events, Lavellan struggles with feelings of anxiety, overwhelming responsibility, and isolation as she adjusts to life in human society while trying to save the world from Corypheus. The newly-appointed Inquisitor steps up to the challenge, but balks at the idea of assuming the mantle of a fanatical, religious figurehead. She finally seeks escape from the pressures of leadership through the exploration of her sexuality, but quickly finds herself embroiled in a labyrinth of romantic complexity. 
> 
> This is a slow-burn smut for those who enjoy character development and relationship-building. There are re-occurring themes of mental illness, homo/pansexuality, non-binary gender, emotional abuse, and social conflict, but also lightened with a dose of humour and explicit sex. However, the story of the Inquisition is a brutal one filled with loss and violence, and I hope to keep that atmosphere going throughout the series.

The world swayed sickeningly, and slowly Lavellan became aware that she was upside down.

 _Fuck_ , she thought, nausea causing her head to spin as she closed her eyes. _I’m back in the Fade._

She might have taken a breath, or she might have blacked out again, but for what seemed like a short eternity her body, nerve by raw nerve, woke up to the sensations around her. The light filtering through her eyelids was warm and low, as if from a late setting sun and not – thank the Creators – the eldritch green glow of the Fade’s dead sun.

_We’re heading south._

Wait. _We_? Yes, her mind was suddenly cognizant of the sounds it refused to translate before. The shuffle and crunch of a heavy boot along gravel behind her. The dull clank of armor moving against itself somewhere ahead. And still closer, the bellowing, rhythmic sound of labored breath. Her eyes were sticky, crusted together and bleary, but she eventually found the strength to peel them apart. Immediately her head spun, and she began to regret waking up at all. Her chest throbbed; her arm and thigh hurt.

Hells, everything hurt. With the shocking wave of pain, both reality and memory came rushing back.

She must have gasped out loud, because the world stopped swaying and the vice-like grip that had held her in position by the forearm and thigh loosened slightly, shifting her squirming weight easily across a platform of muscles and sinew.

“Seeker! The Boss is awake.”

Lavellan winced as Bull’s voice crashed through her skull like a pike. He grunted slightly underneath her, his exhalations vibrating through her body as he expertly righted her across his shoulder. He must have been carrying her across his back after she passed out …

No wonder everything was upside down.

The change in perspective left the blood rushing from her head, and the heroic leader of the dread Inquisition wondered weakly if she was going to puke all over Bull’s breastplate. The Seeker was peering at the battered elf with a critical eye, and Lavellan couldn’t understand why Bull was still cradling her like a doll. She should stand, right? She survived worse already.

She bit back another wave of pain, the gut-wrenching roil of nausea in her stomach. Alright, standing can wait.

From the ragged, shaking condition of Bull’s panting, and the stinging hot sweat that beaded his chest, Lavellan wasn’t completely sure Bull should be standing either. Apparently, Cassandra agreed.

“You look like hell, Qunari,” the Seeker said, cocking an eyebrow. Lavellan’s cheek pressed against the bare side of Bull’s chest, tucked against his shoulder, and could feel how hot and tight his skin was beneath a layer of grit and dried blood. Elgar'nan! She could feel the blood now, caked across her face, dried in her hair, still damp and sticky where it soaked under her leather jacket. The acrid smell of her hit as Bull’s arms tightened slightly to adjust his arms to support her body. Most of the blood wasn’t even hers; she’d been directly under the maw of the high dragon when she – somehow - landed the final killing blow. The visceral filth of it made her stink like something out of the Blight.

“I’ll be alright, Seeker,” The Iron Bull rumbled gently, smirking at Cassandra’s disapproving glare. “Let’s just get to the camp. We used up our potions too quick, and I wanna get some elfroot into the Boss and let her rest.”

Lavellan turned her neck, slowly, not trusting her stomach to not suddenly vacate itself. Bull was in bad shape: she’d had to revive this impossible mountain of muscles multiple times as the giant Fereldan Frostback knocked him across the burnt field like it was swatting an annoying pest. Dorian limped up to give her a wry grin, only in slightly better shape since he kept to a support position behind the rest. Each one of the men was seared and covered in wet soot. In contrast, Cassandra seemed to be in top condition, sweaty and flushed but no worse for wear after going toe to toe with an ornery high dragon. Lavellan thought that her face took on a pretty flush, as if the woman was excited and invigorated by the exercise. The elf was in constant awe of her friend’s battle prowess: Cassandra’s goddess-like shield-work and consummate dedication made the Seeker an invaluable (and terrifying) permanent addition to the Inquisitor’s field team.

But Lavellan, wielding her magic blade and insisting on leading from the front, seemed to take the worst of whatever the high dragon was dishing out that afternoon. She’d given the remainder of her restorative vials to Bull ( _by the Dread Wolf, stop charging everything_!), and depleted her stock of both healing potions and lyrium long before they had exhausted the great wyrm enough to close in. Only by tearing a hole in the Veil above the dragon's head was she able to paralyze the winged monster long enough for drive her crackling blade straight into exposed flesh.

“Good of you to make it out alive!” joked Dorian, who never lost an opportunity to quip at anyone. “And here I thought I’d have to raise you from the dead! Just think of what they’ll say in Orlais, blame it on the _evil Tevinter magister_ no doubt. ‘Ooooh nooo, the Lady Inquisitor is a zombie!’ ‘Really? What gave it away? The smell? Not to worry – she’s just a barbarian in need of a good bath.’”

Lavellan couldn’t help but chuckle, even if it made her ribs contract painfully.

“That bad, huh?”

“You’ve been worse, I’m sure,” winked Dorian.

“Enough!” snapped Cassandra, exasperated with the two mage’s antics. “We need to keep moving; the camp isn’t far now, and we _all_ need to rest.” The Seeker turned on her heal and promptly continued her march. Dorian leaned close, the ever-present mischief glowing in his eyes.

“She’s just anxious to get back to her tent for the night. I hear Master Tethras has sent her yet another chapter of ‘Swords and Shields’ to enjoy.”

Lavellan giggled, but her mirth didn’t last long. It felt like a lifetime since she’d had anything, or _anyone_ inspire her in such a way. With the constant pressures of her new role as Inquisitor and the irregular but exhausting hours, not to mention a complete lack of privacy in the field, she found herself completely lacking in any libido. At least everyone was entitled to their own tents now; her first foray into the Hinterlands was a nightmare of cramped bedrolls as she, Cassandra, Solas, and Varric were forced to share a single bivouac between them. Even in the Dalish aravels she’d had more space; and if she’d desired time away from the clan, she had the wilderness of the Free Marches to lose herself in. Now, Lavellan couldn't even forage for herbs without an entire party following her. As soon as she could requisition materials from The Crossroads on her first mission for the Inquisition, she’d insisted that her field team at least be supplied with their own tents.

Also, it hurt – _tremendously_ – to giggle.

For now, she’d be happy just to have a bedroll and a hot meal and a bitter, but blessedly numbing, fortified elfroot drought to help her sleep. The Inquisition soldiers at Dusklight camp could deal with collecting the dragon carcass for transportation back to Skyhold on their own.

“You O.K. Boss? Not passing out on me again?”

Bull’s rumbling baritone roused her from daydreams of her plush Fereldan poster bed back in Skyhold. She shook her head, not wanting to speak again. Bull could drop his voice low until it became unbelievably soft, strange for a person so large and seemingly brusque. But she knew that, too, was part of the façade that Bull erected between himself and the world.

The Qunari, the mindlessly brutal heathen. Cradling the Inquisitor, holding her close so that his gait wouldn’t pain her injuries. Ignoring the trickle of hot blood seeping from her wounds in rivulets down his side. The Qunari who took a flail to the face meant for a scruffy Tevinter urchin, who mourned the massacre of human children in Sahara, but gleefully slaughtered bandits of every kind in Orlais. What other gentle graces existed beneath the scars and the violence? Ever since their first meeting, Lavellan wanted to peel back that mask and see who The Iron Bull truly was. He was refreshingly honest and straightforward with her, and she’d never had a reason to suspect his motivations with the Inquisition. But there was a cunning that she would catch sometimes, in a smile or a word, that most overlooked because of his appearance. Lavellan spent a lifetime hiding her magical abilities from those outside the clan; she was fully aware that Bull had yet shown his true face to her, and in time her curiosity grew, unchecked.

She caught herself sniffing against his shoulder, taking in the smell of him. His odor was heavy with sweat, and blood, but the sweat didn’t smell _bad_ … she expected the thick, oily, sharp musk that was so often associated with human exercise. The Dalish, living their entire lives outdoors, would smell like wet leather, or mud, or halla wool, or warmed sunlight on hair; sometimes, when she was still traveling with the clan and alone with a lover, she rested her head on their chest after sex and enjoyed the perfume from their love-making. But then the Keeper sent her to spy on the human Conclave, and for the first time she experienced the rank press of human crowds. Even after all this time with the Inquisition, she was still unused to the pungency of men sweating in armor, and midden heaps, and _ugh, sewers_.

These things she associated with the smells of humans. But The Iron Bull wasn’t human, and nestling into the crook of his arm she found herself enjoying in the strange, comforting spiciness of him. The elf filled her lungs appreciatively, tasting the tang of oiled leather, a hint of metallic spark from the studs and buckles; under that, a heady mixture of warm incense, elfroot, and salt. Lavellan felt strangely drunk with his proximity and briefly wondered how rough the callouses on his hands would feel gliding down her back, and if she’d be able to taste the incense on his skin if she licked him right now.

The intrusive thought of darting her tongue out to rasp against the base of his neck sent an electric spark from her lips down through her core to nest between her legs.

The elf twitched, as if shocked, and felt the heat flush her face and her crotch embarrassingly.

The Iron Bull’s one good eye darted down to catch hers, his expression unchanging. Thick black eyelashes framed a single grey iris that regarded her inscrutably. But there, an almost imperceptible upturn at the corner of his mouth, a smile that was not a smile.

 _Oh, sweet Creators,_ Lavellan thought to herself, wanting nothing more to escape from his unexpected scrutiny, _can he read my mind too!?_ What was wrong with her? She was concussed and bruised and bleeding out, yet a small part of her body most neglected now screamed unrepentant for attention.

“Don’t worry, Boss. Camp’s just ahead. We’ll get you taken care of in no time.”

The Bull’s voice was courteous but Lavellan could sense a tone of mocking behind those words. She squirmed uncomfortably in his arms, and once again, he shifted her weight as he walked. Lavellan realized with growing mortification, that his bare arm had been supported against her bottom the whole time.

Silently, The Iron Bull laughed at the unexpectedly delicious predicament the Inquisitor now found herself in.

**Author's Note:**

> Aneth ara!  
> Thank you for reading. This is my first fanfiction story arc, and I hope you'll enjoy it.  
> Instead of posting one massive work, I've decided to break up the first part into 4 separate pieces. These are all part of the same story, where I hope to set the scene and do some character development. If you enjoy some side-plot story creation peppered with sexy kink, this might be the the work for you!  
> I am unsure how long _Torn Asunder_ will run for, but it will end with the completion of Trespasser (spoilers ahead!). Until then, enjoy the journey! Dareth shiral <3


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